


Stigma

by Howling_Harpy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Marriage, Medical Examination, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howling_Harpy/pseuds/Howling_Harpy
Summary: It comes for them at night.
Relationships: Renee LeMaire/Eugene Roe
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Stigma

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give a little shout out to this rare pair and also reread on first aid, and this is the result. 
> 
> Much love and thank you to [Lysel](https://lyselkatzfandomluvs.tumblr.com/) who helped me with French!
> 
> *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, and means no disrespect.

It descended upon them in the darkness of their bedroom, but when she woke up to frantic pawing, she knew by then what to do even when half asleep. Her husband’s touch wasn’t rough but it was firm, quick and clinical as it moved over her body. 

He had grabbed her fast and she had been snapped awake, but now she made herself relax back on the bed while his hands ran over her limbs, pressing and squeezing over every inch. She could hear his quickened breath, heavy but controlled as he worked.

“Left arm, ok,” he muttered under his breath, then moved onto her right one and did the same thing, then moved onto her legs.

“Left leg, ok”, he said. “Right leg, ok.”

After her limbs, his hands pushed under her night shift and pulled the garment up. His hands touched her shoulders, her neck, then ran over her chest, armpits, sides and stomach, his movements growing quicker by every inch of skin he swiped over. There was no trace of the shyly sensual man he was when they made love, and that was the strangest part of these nights: his touch didn’t make her skin warm all over or make her heart beat faster, it left her cold even though his palms were sweaty. 

When he pulled her half sitting up and ran his hands over her back, he grew anxious. “Wound,” he muttered urgently, “I can’t find the wound. Où est la blessure?!”

“Il n’y a pas de blessure, Eugene,” Renée said calmly, hoping her words would reach her husband at this point.

They seemed to do so, because he sighed and stopped examining her and let her lie back down. Next, his hands moved to her face, taking a firm hold of her chin and forehead and tilting her head back, then he leaned down over her, his cheek above her mouth and his left hand resting on her chest. 

Renée was quiet and just breathed, letting her breath whoosh against his cheek. He stayed there like that for what felt like an eternity, but when he lifted his head again he muttered: “Frequency of breath twenty-four.”

He took her hand, put two fingers on the inner side of her wrist and stilled there. 

“Pulse fifty-four,” Eugene said another half a minute later. He let go of her hand and she let it fall on the bed.

“I got to cover the burns. The burns need to be covered,” he kept muttering, “are you warm? Can you speak? Are you in any pain?”

“I’m good, Eugene. I’m very warm and I have no pain,” Renée assured him calmly. She couldn’t see in the dark, but his hands were slower now, gentle and almost hesitant in a way that told her that he was coming out of it. 

“You’re not in pain,” he said quietly. Not a question, but a relieved statement. 

“No pain,” Renée said, “everything is alright, Eugene. It’s alright.” 

For a moment it was quiet, then Eugene’s hands slipped away from her and he collapsed back on the bed. She listened to the rustle of sheets and covers as he shifted and turned and waited for him to speak up first. There was a sense of awkwardness in the dark of their bedroom after Eugene had fully woken up, and Renée heard him take several deep breaths as he gathered himself. 

Finally Eugene slumped down and his head hit the pillow. Renée righted her nightie while he no doubt stared up to the ceiling.

“Pardon. I woke you up again,” Eugene finally said. “And you had such a tough day at the hospital too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Renée said, cutting him off before he could go on further. “I understand. We both saw things, it’s only natural they left their mark.”

“Don’t wanna be marked,” Eugene said through gritted teeth. 

“Je sais. No need to explain.” 

They lied quietly for a while, both too shaken up to fall back asleep just yet and both knowing it. Something was slowly winding down in their bedroom, and the darkness felt less and less grand and suffocating by each passing moment.

“Did I hurt you?” Eugene asked in a small voice. It was clear that he didn’t want to ask the question, didn’t want to even consider that he might have, but he was too much of a proper man to let himself pretend and forget that he might have. 

Renée couldn’t help but smile. These were the moments she knew she had made the right choice by leaving Belgium behind and following the man she had just met across the ocean. “No, you didn’t hurt me,” she said. “You did everything correctly according to protocol.” 

He didn’t say anything, but he took a deep breath that he held, then released in a slow, controlled blow. The mattress springs gave the slightest of whispers when he rolled onto his side.

“Puis-je?” he asked.

“Oui,” Renée replied easily and turned on her side as well.

Now her husband’s touch was slow and tender and familiar as he pushed his hand under her nightie. His warm palm cupped her pelvis for a moment before slipping over it, and Renée felt the last shreds of tension leaving her body when Eugene’s hand found the scars. His tender fingers stroked over the long since healed points where bones had stuck out, and his palm smoothed over the plateaus of tough burn scars without hesitation. 

Renée knew that usually people were ashamed of their scars and tended to hide them. They covered them, lied about them, tried to forget about them and hid them away from other people, regardless if the scar was on their body or mind. But not her. She found peace in existing with her scars, and unity with her husband who touched them so readily, soothing himself by soothing her. 

What had descended on them again in the dark of the night was in those scars. It was the thing that had nearly claimed her, what they had witnessed more than anyone else, what they had fought against with strips of sheets and their bare hands. It had touched them both, and it had followed them home after the war. 

Death had bound them together stronger than their rings or any vows in a church, but when they were together it could be soothed with gentle touches and turned into nothing more than a lull of deep sleep.


End file.
